


The Cost of Living

by Recipe



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: But inspired by the Blue Lion route, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Time Skip, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 17:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recipe/pseuds/Recipe
Summary: Your relationship with death isn’t like most. You’ve flirted with death, like others have flirted for a free drink at the bar. You’ve even gone home with death a few times. Once, you stayed over for a five year stint before putting on yesterday’s skin and crawling out of slumber.(In which Byleth contemplates the meaning of death but also keeps running into Claude in the middle of the night.)





	The Cost of Living

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit different from my other piece, where I tried to stay within canon as closely as possible. This one’s more loosely tied into the story, inspired by part with some of the darker themes & dialogue in the Blue Lion run I’m going through now in comparison to the overall mood of the Golden Deer run.
> 
> I'm so sorry about the accidental angst. One day I'll figure out how to write some proper fluff.
> 
> As usual, your feedback is appreciated!

Your relationship with death isn’t like most.

You’ve flirted with death, like others have flirted for a free drink at the bar, and you’ve sent it gifts, bouquet after bouquet of souls you’ve hand-plucked out of their bodies.

You’ve even gone home with death a few times. (Once, you stayed over for a five year stint before putting on yesterday’s skin and crawling out of slumber.)

You’re so trapped in this toxicity with death, this on-and-off-again relationship, that you sometimes doubt you’ll ever find anything else, or any _ one _ else.

After all, how could you? According to your father’s diary, you were death’s to begin with. It was only magical intervention that brought you to life as a baby, with death lending you out to the living. (For now.)

You don’t even have a heartbeat that ticks down the time until death claims you, because it already has.

This is no courtship. There is no love. This is a downward spiral of raw abuse.

* * *

"Hey, Teach."

Claude is leaned over on the table, one hand keeping the spine of the book splayed open before him and the other running along the edge of his beard. As you approach, however, he takes a break from his research to greet you with a tired smile that doesn’t wrinkle the corners of his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and tipping it on its hind legs. It makes a creaking sound as he releases his hold on his book and stretches his limbs out and cracks his neck. Even relaxing, he has the lazy grace of an apex predator, you note.

“No,” you answer with a shake of your head. You never sleep well after a battle - or you haven’t ever since Sothis woke up within you. It was only then that you started to notice the last emotions etched into the faces of your targets before you killed them and began to wonder about the only life you’ve ever known.

Until Sothis awoke, life felt like wading through a dream.

“I get it,” Claude says. He pulls out the chair next to him and gestures for you to sit. “Five years ago, when I suggested a reunion during the millennium festival… I promise that I didn’t have the Battle at Gronder in mind.”

He speaks with his usual cheer and sarcasm, but his eyes are exhausted. It’s comforting, you think - that despite everything he’s had to do in war, he doesn’t like death and tires of it.

You’ve seen today what you could become if you committed to death, if you married death. You saw the haunted look on Dimitri’s face, you saw the careless way he cut people down around him with his lance, desperate to please death in whatever way he could for a bit of death’s affection in return.

You had commanded everyone else to stay back as Lysitheia warped you into the center of his army. You would face Dimitri’s tortured eyes alone. No one else should have to face the depths of a soul already so forsaken by the living.

It scares you. It scares you shitless that you might become Dimitri.

What is tethering you to the side of life? 

You push your worries aside as you take the seat beside Claude. His good humor, even when faked, helps distract you from the gravity of your thoughts. “I’m not so sure,” you speculate in response. “Judith doesn’t call you a master schemer for nothing.”

He laughs a little at that, and you think you see his eyes lighten for a second. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered that you think I could cook up a five-year-long scheme that ended with a class reunion on the battlefield, or that I should be offended that you think I  _ would _ cook up a five-year-long scheme that ended with a class reunion on the battlefield.”

You extend a hand to him. "Only you can make such decisions," you say. A bit of a silence lapses, before you add, "But offended, probably."

"Aw, Teach," Claude grins, "ever the professor with all the answers, aren't you?"

It bewilders you that he says that, because it bewilders you that anyone ever looks to you to help with their questions. (It bewilders you that you were made a professor at all.) You consistently feel like you have none of the answers. You don't even understand death, and that's the one thing you're most acquainted with.

"Not at all," you say honestly. "I find myself often depending on you."

For some reason, a bit of a flush spreads across the tops of his cheeks. It's an endearing look on him, and not one you often get to see. You wonder if you could have Ignatz paint this moment, so that you might keep it forever.

"Well, if I feel the same about you," Claude says carefully, "what does that say?"

You ponder on this for a bit, but the way Claude is fixing his gaze upon you is rather distracting. Every thought you have keeps being pulled back to how green his eyes are, or how undivided his attention is, and how warm it makes you feel in your skin.

Besides, what is he doing, asking you a question like this immediately after you confessed that you don't know any of the answers?

"I'd say that I hope Edelgard is just as confused, or else we might not have a shot in this war after all," you say.

You don't know if there was supposed to be some sort of  _ moment _ right then - the type Lorenz talks about when he's waxing poetry and romance - but if it were ever there, it's gone now; because Claude laughs and it's not reflected in his eyes, and he waves your comment aside.

"Edelgard started this whole war, which leads me to believe she's even more confused than the rest of us." He closes his book and gets up. "It's late, Teach. You should get some rest."

* * *

You're under no illusions when it comes to the meaning of life. You can't afford to be romantic. You've only ever been a tool for others to wield.

Death loaned you out to life, reaping back the interest it was owed with every soul you condemn on the battlefield. Rhea struck the bargain to see you as a vessel of the progenitor god, to be The Beginning over death's The End.

You don't want to be a goddess, and you don't want to be a reaper.

Your father just wanted you to be human, wanted you to cry over scraped knees and laugh over poorly told puns. He was the only one in the world who just wanted you to be, and now he belongs to death as well.

It makes you want to defy death all the more.

* * *

"Javelins of light…"

Claude's muttering under his breath, pacing through the library as his fingers dance atop the spines of the books lining the shelves, his eyes darting back and forth between titles. His curiosity has always been unchallenged, but this time, the question posed is one that frustrates you as well.

“You think you’d find an explanation for it here?” you ask doubtfully as you step towards him. “In the library Solon managed for the Church of Seiros?”

“Likelier here than any other that we have access to,” Claude points out, still scanning the library inventory. "Anyways, imagine an answer were here and we didn't even bother to  _ look." _

You smile at his tenacity. "Good thing we have you to make sure it doesn't happen," you say.

He hums. "I think it's luckier that we have you on our side, Teach," he says. You know he means it, even if he is currently distracted by his search.

"No," you say, shaking your head. "I'm just a tool."

That stops him short, his fingers stalling over whatever volume as he looks up at you. "You don't really think that, do you?"

You hadn't really meant to say that - but it's been a long day, with mysterious air missiles almost claiming all of your lives, with so much destruction... And death's embrace had been just a hair's width away...

"I am, though," you say, sitting down and leaning your head on your hands. "You've read my father's diary."

Claude purses his lips slightly before abandoning his search to take the seat across from you. "Yes, the part about no heartbeat," he acknowledges. His gaze is intent but guarded; you know he has more theories about it, but he's refraining from sharing.

You’ve never shared your theories with anyone but Sothis, and it takes a while for you to find the words - and the courage - to speak.

"I think I was stillborn," you admit quietly after a turn, "but Rhea brought me back to be someone else. It's why she trusted me so quickly to be a professor, and gave me the Sword of the Creator to protect."

Even though your voice is low, it feels like it's echoing in the dead of night. 

Claude leans back, his eyes drifting over your shoulder as he considers your words. "I've thought something similar. She seemed surprisingly unsurprised when you returned from a mission with a hair color that matched hers." He shakes his head and continues, "But you can't think that just because of the circumstances of your birth, that you're only a tool to be used and not your own person."

"Coming from you, I'm surprised," you say, a small laugh escaping with an exhale. "I was under the impression you wanted me on your side for similar reasons."

He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking deeply troubled. His fingers are rapidly tapping against the side of the desk between the two of you, a clear sign of his agitation. You suppose it's a testament to how earnest he feels around you to show this side of him. There’s no doubt that he is fully capable of spinning his silvertongue around your concerns, and that he looks quite as conflicted as he does takes you by surprise.

"I - I suppose I did, before," he manages finally. "But you can't think that I still feel the same now. After all that we've been through." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.

He’s upset, you realize. You’re not fully sure why, but perhaps he’s feeling a little bit of guilt, or a little insecure. " _ I _ picked  _ you _ , if you recall," you remind him softly. "Over Edelgard, over Dimitri."

"That doesn't mean - "

"They wanted to use me too, I have no doubt," you continue, for once not giving him room to speak. "And even if I am just brought to this world to be used - at least I can choose who I want to be used by."

The frown doesn't leave his face. Even if it's a rare look beyond his usual mask of charm, you decide you don't like it.

"I picked you," you repeat, more firmly this time. "And I'm glad I did."

He nods and forces a smile on his face, his eyes gone blank once more. And you decide you don't like this look, either.

You just want him to be happy.

* * *

Sometimes, death takes those around you away, as if to remind you -  _ see, everything belongs to me _ .

You rewind time and send death another soul. "Not this one," you say to death with gritted teeth. "You can't have him yet."

* * *

The sauna is mercifully empty in the dead of night. You let your towel drop to your ankles and you close your eyes, the steam rising around you and lapping at your battle wounds.

You don't enjoy the heat, but you've always liked the way the sauna makes you feel, with sweat beading from your skin as if melting away the horrors of war, with the humidity dampening your thoughts when they drift to the faces of those you've cut down. As if you could leave the sauna having burned away the monster who came in. As if the discomfort from the heat of the sauna lets you - for a moment - remember that you are also human, with human discomforts, and not just a machine of murder.

The door creaks open, and you hastily gather the towel back to your chest. 

"Teach?"

It's Claude's voice that calls out in confusion. 

You tighten the towel around you. "Hello, Claude," you manage, and your voice is a little higher than usual. Your room is the closest to the sauna, so you've learned the schedules of sauna-goers pretty early. No one else is usually here at this hour.

There's a moment of silence that falls before Claude says, "You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

"Please," you say after clearing your throat. You would prefer to enjoy this time by yourself, but it's hardly fair to deny the amenity to others. You scoot over to the edge of the room and take a seat just as Claude comes into view, a towel of his own tied around his waist. He catches sight of you, and the glow on his face you're sure is mirrored on your own - and you're not sure if it's just because of the stifling warmth of the sauna.

He shifts a little as he sits a little ways across from you and your eyes catch on a red welt on his shoulder. "Is that…"

Claude grimaces. "Yeah, that archer got a lucky shot on me," he says. "The steam helps relax the muscles around it." You must still look dubious, because he twists his lips into a teasing grin instead and continues, "But don't worry, Teach. I'll still be able to protect you on the battlefield."

That makes you scoff. Who did you have to rewind time for this last battle when it turned out that there was a hidden battalion of archers on the other side of the bushes? It certainly wasn't for yourself. "I'm not worried about your ability to protect _ me _ on the battlefield," you retort dryly. "I'm worried if you'll still look pretty after all this."

"You think I'm pretty?" His eyes alight and his grin widens.

"For now." Your bottom of your stomach feels a little tense. You've felt this way before sometimes when you've gone hunting, like something is hiding behind the trees and hunting  _ you. _ But the only other being here is Claude, and you're hardly prey to him - so the tightness surprises you. Still, your voice is laced with a hint of warning. "A few more of those shots…"

He plows on as if you hadn't said anything. "Tell me, Teach. Do you _ like _ looking at me?"

The heat in your cheeks has nothing to do with the temperature of the sauna, you're now sure. You're almost wishing you didn't tease him about his looks to begin with. "I don't like looking at you with serious wounds in your shoulder," you say crossly.

"I'd never let myself die on you, my friend," he says - except that he almost  _ did _ , had you not been there. "That would mean cutting my time with you short, and we've only just reunited."

"I'd never let you die on me, either," you tell him honestly. Claude is too full of life for you to give him up to death. (Not this one, you think again. Death can't have him yet.)

"Sounds like between the two of us, we can make sure I'll live a long and fulfilling life, then," Claude says cockily. “Just make sure you don’t die on me, either, all right, Teach? Otherwise, it’ll be a lot harder to ensure I’ll get that long and fulfilling life if the only person watching out for me is - well, me.”

He grins boyishly, the picture creating a sharp juxtaposition against all the hard angles of his body. You try not to appreciate the image too much though - it feels… _ inappropriate _ , especially since he’s just been teasing you about enjoying his looks, which you most definitely do  _ not _ want to encourage (or, you think not, at least) - so you snap your gaze to the stained glass window instead that casts a gentle kaleidoscope of color on the sauna floor by the light of the moon.

When you don’t answer - because your throat seems suddenly dry, and you’re not sure you can trust yourself to navigate this conversation - Claude sighs, and he shifts closer to you. "Teach…"

Your breath catches as he leans in. 

"I keep thinking about when you said that you see yourself as a tool… and I don't want you to think that." The line of his jaw is tight as he speaks. "It’s been plaguing me and I want you to know that… well, I want you to be someone by my side. And I as someone by yours. As an equal."

You knew he didn’t enjoy the conversation you had about your perspective on your life, but you hadn’t realized how much it bothered him. For his sake, you humor him and you try to understand the picture he is painting.

"As a friend?" you ask.

He looks down, laughing to himself, but you're not sure what's so funny. "Maybe a little more than that," he supposes.

"More than a friend," you muse. You don't have many friends to begin with, and those who you do have are infinitely precious to you. What is more than a friend?

The heat of the sauna is affecting you, you think. It’s making you a little dizzy and keeping you from thinking straight.

His fingers are playing with the edge of your towel now. He’s always working with his hands - if not practicing with his bow, you’ve noticed, he’s twirling an arrow or spinning a pen. He doesn’t even seem to be fully aware that his fidgeting habit has him playing with the frays of  _ your _ towel, but you’re painfully aware of every time his calloused fingertips accidentally brush your skin and leave a searing trail in its wake.

You clear your throat, and the noise draws his attention back to reality from whatever thoughts he was lost to. He seems to suddenly notice that his hands had been wandering off on their own accord and he hastily pulls them back, running one of the through his hair, then resting it there so his face his buried into the crook of his elbow with his head leaned against the wooden backboard of the sauna. He doesn’t offer an explanation or an apology, and you can’t read his expression hidden behind his arm, but you leave it be… Perhaps, because you’re not sure you want to know what it meant.

It’s probably time for you to step out of the sauna anyways, you think. The heat tonight is more overwhelming than usual and you’re starting to feel slightly faint. You move to leave, tightening the towel around you, but Claude remains motionless and doesn’t acknowledge you.

When you reach the doorway, you pause and turn around. “I’ll do my best not to die on you, either,” you promise. Maybe, for now, Claude can be the tether that keeps you from falling into death’s arms.

It’s funny, you think. You still feel a little light-headed as you walk back to your room, despite the revitalizing cool night air.

* * *

You’re insane, of course. You know the way you personify death isn’t healthy.

Perhaps you’re so used to talking to Sothis in your head, that when she left, you started speaking to death instead. And it’s equally comforting as it is terrifying to know that death is  _ always _ there, and that death will never leave you - not like your father and not like Sothis. Death is a constant that dogs your footsteps.

You can’t forget about death, and you can’t move on from death. You’re not sure you want to - because what does that mean, to be a murderer who has forgotten about those you’ve killed, or to be a human who has forgotten about those you once loved but died?

You are death’s prophet. You have taught and trained an army of innocents to kill, and you have announced death’s coming to too many.

You fear that you are bound to death, until death do you part.

* * *

The sky is clear tonight, and the stars are dancing.

You’re lying on the grass in the middle of the monastery courtyard, counting the stars you can see. Who else, you wonder, in this world is looking at the same sky right now as you and contemplating the questions of their life?

“Did you miss the camping on the road so much that you decided to forgo the comforts of the bed while at Garreg Mach, too?”

Of course it’d be Claude to find you here.

Without prompting, he settles himself beside you, resting his hands behind his head. “I’m starting to think that you don’t sleep at all, my friend,” he observes.

“You’re awake too,” you point out.

“So I am,” he agrees, but offers no more. You don’t badger him for more information - his reasons are his own, and the possible reasons for being awake so late in times of war are many.

You roll over on the grass to face Claude. “You’re from Almyra, aren’t you?” He tenses a little at that, and it makes you think there’s more to it. “Someone important, then, I’d wager. Is your father a duke as well?”

“Something like that,” Claude admits. “But nobility works differently there.”

You don’t doubt it. “Cyril tells me that death is celebrated in Almyra,” you comment, trying your best to sound nonchalant. It’s what you’ve been thinking about, staring at the sky - if there is some boy or girl in Almyra lying in the grass of their homeland and staring upwards, smiling about death while you’re here, fearing it?

Sometimes, you wish that you had a hobby, like Ignatz with his paintings or Hilda with her jewelry making or Lorenz with his tea leaf collecting. Maybe it would ignite within you a purpose for something outside of war; maybe you would be able to talk about topics more interesting than death. However, the very idea of becoming someone is not defined by the battlefield seems intimidating because of how foreign it is to you.

Claude exhales slowly. “To an extent.” He thinks on it for a second. “How do I word this? Almyrans - we’re a nation of warriors. Death is accepted as a naturally occurring phenomenon. Since no one can avoid it, we choose to view it as an honorable rite of passage.”

You don’t see the honor of murder when you strike someone down, knowing that the last thing they’ll see in their lives isn’t their loved ones, but a foe on the battlefield. It’s dirty work, what you do.

“It does mean that we have many who die young,” Claude allows, “and sometimes I think their deaths are unnecessary. But choosing to honor instead of grieve death isn't the worst perspective to have on the unavoidable, and it's the only one they know.”

You can't wrap your mind around it. Sometimes, Claude throws a feast after hard-won victories, but the merriment is usually bittersweet between the relief of being alive and the disbelief of those who had fallen. But you're intrigued by this Almyran philosophy regardless. Perhaps it will help you come to terms with death more, once you meet those who treat death as a friend.

"I'd like to see Almyra one day," you confess. "When this war is won. I'd like to learn more about it."

Unexpectedly, a quiet, genuine smile rises to his lips. You don't know what you did to deserve this smile, but this smile you could get lost in, you think.

"I'd like to take you to Almyra one day," he says.

You think you'd like that too, especially if Claude taking you to Almyra makes him smile like that.

Because maybe this smile is something you could live for.

* * *

And maybe, as much as you fear death, you  _ need _ it.

You need death, because you're afraid of what you are without it. You know you don't like who you are when you're with death - but you're useful, at least, with a purpose. You know the rules of war, and death's confines are familiar.

And the unknown of who you are without death seems like it could be so much worse.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

You fold your arms across your chest. There's little you wouldn't do for Claude, you think, but this is one of the few.

For his part, he looks agitated. "Why not?" he asks. It's clear that he didn't predict your reaction. "You're a natural born leader. Everyone you work with, they all trust you. You've charmed the Alliance lords better than I ever have, and in just one meeting."

If he's bitter about the sentiment, he doesn't show it.

"I can't," you insist. He is asking too much of you tonight.

"That's not a reason why," Claude says impatiently.

How can you explain that you could never be the person that the newly united Fódlan needs to rule it?

"I wanted to go to Almyra after this was done. With you," you say, and it comes out sounding like such a childish wish that you're starting to feel a bit embarrassed about it.

But that had been your plan. Visiting a land whose people have long since reconciled with the pains of death is something you think might help you recover from the scars that this war has left behind. And, you also think - privately, because you still don't fully comprehend the feeling - that being there with Claude might help you heal as well.

Claude falls silent and seems at war with himself. His lips start to move but no sounds part from them, and if he looked agitated before, he looks distraught now. He's staring at you with those green eyes of his, but then he’s not staring at you at the same time - like he is teetering on the line between reality and possibility, trying to hold on to both.

In a sudden flurry of movement, he stands up - chair screeching against the wooden floor - and begins to pace the room. "Gods," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "You make this so difficult."

You start to feel annoyed a bit at that. "I'm not being difficult.  _ You're  _ the one who is insisting that I be queen  _ and _ archbishop of Fódlan, never mind what I - "

" _ You _ are making it difficult for  _ me _ to -" he interrupts heatedly, spinning around to face you before he cuts himself off abruptly -

And the fire in his eyes is something you've never seen in him before, not Claude with his impenetrable mask, who makes your heart stutter and purr whenever you see the light in his eyes when he truly smiles, but this is so much more, the way they've darkened and hunger with a passion you scarcely understand but can  _ feel _ , and it feels like living, it feels like -

"To  _ resist _ you," he finally manages to finish, hands clenched into fists at his side.

And this fire - is this what  _ more than a friend _ means? Frustration bubbles up within you. You know so  _ little _ of the world that you don't understand your emotions, let alone his emotions, but you think you understand enough to know that you might want whatever it is that he wants - if only so that you can taste that fire.

"Then why are you resisting?" you ask, and something crumbles in Claude -

Then he rushes to you and his arms pull you in, crushing you against him, and his lips are hot against your lips, your jawline, your neck, and he whispers your name against your skin and no one's ever said your name like that, like you were  _ needed _ , desperately -

Then as suddenly as it began, it ends, too soon, and you're absolutely mortified to hear a quiet whimper escape you from the loss when he pulls away.

The sound makes him smile though, and he carefully brushes a stray hair from your face. "Byleth, I can't right now,” he sighs, his voice regretful. You can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but everything’s coming out with more force than he intends. “We both have an obligation to protect the land and the people we've fought for."

"I -" You falter. Your head is spinning and you can't think straight. You're normally short on words, but now, words seem to escape you completely. "Claude, the only thing I know is death. I don't know the first thing about keeping peace."

"What do you mean?" he asks. "You've kept peace among the troops this whole time."

You shake your head. "It's different," you insist. Keeping peace among a scattered army is different from keeping peace among a scattered nation.

"It is," Claude agrees, lifting your chin to face him and putting a hand on your shoulder. You're taken aback by how sincere he looks. "But it also means that you know about something besides death."

He doesn't understand you. "I'm broken," you whisper. 

"You say you know only death, and yet you kept us all alive," Claude says, and then a teasing grin slides onto his face. “I’ve noticed for a while now that despite how wise you are in all other ways, you’re absolutely clueless when it comes to yourself.”

That might be taking it a little far, you think. “Just because I didn’t know my age - ” you start defensively, but he shakes his head.

“That’s not what I meant,” he assures you, pressing a light kiss to your forehead that efficiently shuts you up. “You haven’t noticed all this time how I - I mean, how all of the Golden Deer - love you.” He looks a little abashed and scratches the back of his neck, but he continues relentlessly. “Byleth, you’re the reason everyone came back after five years and stayed to fight this war. You say you know death, but so do we all. And you also know love, because it’s your love for the people in this army that has kept us all together.”

You’re scared to believe him. His words are pretty, but he’s always been good at smithing together perfumed prose.

But this isn’t Claude with the mask, this is a Claude who - you think - loves you, and if he does, then it must be for a  _ reason _ . Because Claude wouldn’t love someone who had married death, which means perhaps you’re not in death’s grip as firmly as you thought you were.

“You’re not a queen yet, I know,” Claude says, “but I also know you will become a good one.”

You look up at him. “And you’ll be there for me when I need it?”

“If you’ll have me,” Claude says. “Once I’ve tied up my loose ends in Almyra.”

“Good,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “Because I find myself often depending on you.”

You can hear the smile in his voice rather than see it. “If I feel the same about you, what does that say?”

There’s still much you don’t know. There are still many problems you can’t solve, many questions you can’t answer.

But for  _ this _ question, you think that this time around you know the answer; and you stand on your toes to press it to his lips.

* * *

Your relationship with death isn’t like most.

You’ve flirted with death, like others have flirted for a free drink at the bar, and you’ve kept it fed. You’ve even gone home with death a few times.

You know death.

And that’s why you know that death is the cost that makes  _ living _ so precious; and you’ll choose to spend it on what you believe in.


End file.
